


you knew

by fated_addiction



Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/F, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25736473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction
Summary: “Come here often?”Wendy decides, ultimately, after the laundry list of pickup lines she hears in the emergency room, this is definitely the weirdest one.The truth? Neither of them believe in love at first sight.
Relationships: Bae Joohyun | Irene/Son Seungwan | Wendy
Comments: 56
Kudos: 366





	1. 1.

-

“Come here often?”

Wendy decides, ultimately, after the laundry list of pickup lines she hears in the emergency room, this is definitely the weirdest one. It’s all about delivery, after all, and given that it’s Friday night in the ER and _all_ the crazy people decide to come out, she really doesn’t know how to process this one.

“You’re really pretty,” her drunken patient confesses. Across the room, her friend smacks her forehead. She’s grinning out of embarrassment and amusement. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen –”

“Did she hit her head?” Wendy cuts her off, looking directly at the friend. Both girls look familiar and she can’t place them. She also feels like she’s been put through the ringer, these last couple of hours.

“No,” the friend mumbles sheepishly. She rubs the back of her neck. “It’s been a really long promotional season and we got drunk at home and then bam! Her hand was, like, through the glass window.”

Wendy sighs.

In front of her, her patient’s hand is stretch over a lift and she resumes the stitches. It’s a superficial gash, deep enough to require stitches but nothing too bad. She hums a little and tries to remember if she’s been up for eight hours or eighteen and then decides it doesn’t matter because her shift should be ending soon. But then the patient moves her hand again.

 _Let it go_ , she tells herself. Frowns. This isn’t supposed to be this complicated; a grown woman is more fidgety than a child and it takes everything in her to shove her irritation down.

“Are you single?”

“Yah, unnie!” The woman across the room comes center stage and to her friend’s side, gripping the uninjured hand. “You’re going to be so embarrassed later,” she warns. “And don’t think I won’t tell you what you did.”

The patient pouts. Then hums too. “But I’m a _little monster_ –”

“Ah!” Wendy blinks, pointing at both women. She’s still mindful of the injured hand. “You’re those girls. The singers.” She looks at her patient. “Do I want to know why you shoved your hand into glass?”

The woman points to herself. “I’m Irene.” She shakes her head. “But really, it’s Joo-hyun. Or _joo_ - _o_ -hyun.”

 _I am so sorry_ , Not Irene-Joohyun mouths to Wendy. 

Wendy shakes her head. She really is too tired to process any of this, but she’s amused, no doubt, and finishes up the stitches on the hand. She’s as gentle as possible, handing the friend all the necessary notes and information for treatment. She doesn’t expect to see them back, she thinks, given that this is a really large hospital and she’s sure their company has even faster treatments for whatever is needed at the end of the day.

“Just make sure you take care of yourself,” she says to the woman in front of her. Irene, she remembers. Or was it Joohyun? Ugh, she thinks. She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I don’t want to see you in here again, okay?”

The woman in the bed gives a vehement nod, smiling brightly, then grimacing, as she drops her injured hand into her lap. She gives her a look and Wendy stands, tilting her head to the side and then reaching forward, ruffling her hair because it seems like the thing to do. The friend sneaks looks between the two of them and Irene is blushing, staring at her wide-eyed.

Wendy won’t remember this part.

Medical school was not her first choice.

In fact, the story of how Wendy became a doctor is sort of murky. Sometimes she blames her parents, which, in the end, isn’t really that fair. Her parents were always very loving and generous and said things like, “you can always do what you can set your mind to!” and mean it in that Hallmark parent kind of way. For awhile, she thought herself to be a singer, to really _love_ singing – there was an audition too, that she almost went to, but she had gotten so sick the day of with the flu that she had decided, then, that the universe had just sent her a sign. But really, it went more along the lines of the fact that she just really liked helping people and she was good at science and languages and, more importantly, not really that squeamish so somehow that translated into school, more school, and medical school, a giant brick to the face that she survived.

Emergency medicine seemed to have a similar path for her; the hustle and bustle of it, the loud, often chaotic charging and moments where she has to think on her feet is always a challenge and one that she really enjoys. So much so that she forgets what interacting with other people is really like.

“Dr. Son?”

A nurse appears at her office door. Wendy has only been at work for ten minutes and already she reaches back, rubbing her neck. What now, she thinks. But the nurse steps into the doorframe and is struggling to hold up the biggest arrangement of flowers she’s ever seen.

“Um –”

The nurse, Naeyeon or Jisoo – Wendy honestly can’t remember – is grinning widely, dropping the arrangement on the edge of her desk. “It’s from the pop star that came in the other night,” she informs her. “You know, the really pretty ones with the hand injury that just came out with that song.” To prove a point, the nurse draws her hands up into mock claws. “Her manager dropped them off for you.”

“For me?” Wendy blinks.

The nurse grins. “For _you_.”

“That’s… weird,” she mutters. “She had barely sobered up and, you know, her hand?”

“One of the girls at the desk said we’d pass it to you. She also scheduled her follow up with you because her GP is out of the country and she figured it would be okay, given that you put her stitches in.”

Wendy snorts. “Her stitches dissolve.”

“She made an _appointment_ ,” the nurse sings, and Wendy has a really big urge to throw something at her.

It’s just that the arrangement of flowers is still sitting on the edge of her desk. They’re ornate and uniform, beautiful flowers but something Wendy would never pick out for herself. She leans forward, her fingers grazing a few of the rose petals. This seems like a lot for stitches, she thinks with some amusement.

It only picks at her curiosity.

Google doesn’t come up until later that night.

There’s a bus crash and that’s a lot, more so because Wendy can only pinpoint blurred moments. It takes awhile to come down from the adrenaline and that’s the only excuse that she has, even years into doing this.

She’s waiting for the elevator when she finally pulls out her phone, ignoring all her unanswered texts to go straight to figuring out the flower situation. She remembers names and phrases, finds out that _Irene_ comes with _Seulgi_ and that both women are actually really, really beautiful and insanely famous and oh _god_ , this is really embarrassing that she got flowers out of all of this. The Internet downward spiral leads her straight into the elevator with a pair of headphones as she combs through the duo’s discography, watching a few minutes of some heavily stylized videos. She’s bewildered, mostly because they were in the emergency room only a few nights before, and they looked like real, idiotic friends that got into a situation they shouldn’t.

“Dr. Son.”

Wendy blinks. Then jumps, startled because she’s suddenly in front of her office and in front of her office, it’s the same woman in video mode on her phone screen. Her thoughts are mess: she’s beautiful, she’s biting her lip and _that’s_ beautiful, and why the hell would she send her flowers?

“Your nurse cancelled my appointment,” the woman mumbles. “I – I’m not really that great at this.”

Wendy blinks again. “Your stitches are _dissolvable_ ,” she blurts.

“See.” The woman is blushing, rubbing at her face. There’s still a bandage around her hand. It looks new. “I’m not good at this at all,” she says.

“I mean, I can’t really help you. I’m not entirely sure what you’re supposed to be good at?”

“Flirting.” The woman looks away and Wendy’s eyes are huge, her mouth opening. “I guess I should introduce myself too – Irene is –”

“A stage name.” Wendy’s unthinkably shameless, holding up her phone and waving it around. “I looked you up… you know, since the flowers.”

Irene’s mouth opens and closes. She laughs and the sound is husky. There are traces of irritation; there’s still this pretty blush that stretches across her face.

“Makes sense,” Irene says. “And Joohyun is my name. Bae Joohyun.”

Wendy nods. “I probably read your patient file, but it was a day. Today was also a day and then, you know, the flowers, so I looked you up.”

“Not your thing?”

“Flowers?” Wendy asks and Irene nods. She wants to try her name out, but she feels a little awkward. “Not really,” she answers. “They overwhelm me most of the time. I like houseplants and coffee.”

“Noted,” Irene says.

They fall into a weird, awkward silence. It’s not tense; it’s just the two of them in the hallway, right in front of her office. Wendy can’t tell if Irene is comfortable or not. Her expression is most unreadable, save for when she seems to be embarrassed by something. It’s cute, she thinks briefly.

But she also can’t fight the yawn that comes out, or the habit to check her watch – she has a brief break before her final rounds.

“How’s your hand?” She still finds herself asking.

“Okay,” Irene says. She shrugs. “Nothing more than an embarrassing story that most people are sworn to secrecy about.”

Wendy laughs. “Are people scared of you?”

“Most people.”

“Hmm.” Wendy tilts her head, studying her. She licks her lip. “You don’t seem that scary,” she says.

Irene bites her lip. “Would you have coffee with me then?”

 _Oh_. Wendy can’t hide her surprise, staring at the other woman with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. There are a million responses in her head and the usual suspects are screaming at her, telling her to say no. Irene, no _Joohyun_ , looks complicated and Wendy is usually so careful around complicated. There’s no room in her life for complicated.

She also can’t stop herself. She’s smiling, then. Steps forward too. “Sure,” she hears herself say. “I’ll have coffee with you, Bae Joohyun.”

The coffee shop is basically an Instagram fixture.

Part of Wendy isn’t surprised, _shouldn’t_ be surprised, but she’s still charmed. There is a mix of artwork and rattan chairs, plants everywhere, literally everywhere, to the point where she’s sort of wide-eyed and delighted. She’s also early because she doesn’t trust herself and she’s on-call; there’s an excuse to leave, which makes sitting here a little easier.

She’s picked a table in the corner by the window, studying the outside. She watches couples come and go, a small group of friends dissolve into laughter, and for once, doesn’t miss the chaos of the emergency room. Sometimes it’s just nice to breathe.

“I hope I’m not late.”

Irene, no _Joohyun_ , is sitting in front of her. In fact, she’s almost too careful – pulls out her chair, neatly puts her purse to the side, and twists so that she can hang a leather jacket behind her. Something about it unsettles Wendy; each motion seems a little too practiced and perfect.

“You’re not.” She finds her voice when the other woman meets her gaze. “Was just looking around – I ordered for us both.”

“You did?”

Wendy shrugs. “Nothing exciting. Just an Americano… I figured you could, um, add what you wanted to that way.”

Irene smiles brightly. It catches Wendy off guard, mostly because it’s just something simple like coffee and it’s not like she suddenly decided or guessed her order right away. Sweet things are usually touchy subjects as it is.

“Thank you,” Irene murmurs. 

“It’s not that serious.”

Wendy finds herself smiling too.

It’s been awhile since she’s been on a date – although to call it a date implied that she knew what was going on and she doesn’t, given that she’s apparently sitting across the table from a multi-million dollar pop star. It reminds her of the magazine articles or gossip articles online that say things like _stars! they're just like us!_ when, in fact, they’re really not.

There’s just this otherworldly quality to Irene that catches her completely off-guard and she doesn’t quite understand how to feel about it.

“So.” She clears her throat. “Do you like being called Joohyun? Really?”

Irene tilts her head. “Do you want to call me Joohyun?”

“I asked first,” she points out. Now, she thinks, would be a good time to bring their order. “Because I can.”

“You can call me Joohyun,” she answers and she leans forward, resting her chin against her palm. “I like hearing you say my name.”

Wendy’s eyes immediately darken and she licks her lips. She studies Irene, wondering what exactly what her intentions are. It seems like all of this is mostly just a whirlwind and where it’s going, it’s not exactly clear. She also finds that a small part of her, surprisingly doesn’t mind.

“Hmm,” she says. “Seems like you’re going to give me a reason to say it.”

And that, there, sets off a really pretty blush across Irene’s face. She’s laughing, half-covering her mouth while keeping Wendy’s gaze. She’s bright and it seems to stop everything in the room, completely catching Wendy off-guard. She’s beautiful, she thinks, and it’s impossible to not think anything but that.

The coffee comes then.

This might be a first date.

There is no second date –

There was _supposed_ to be one but Wendy was paged and suddenly, Irene was jetting off to Beijing for an event and the two of them spend hours via text apologizing to each other so much so that Wendy was disgusted with herself. It’s hard, you know, to admit that you like someone, let alone that you’re in the process of liking someone and understanding that it’s happening too.

Dinner is her idea. Dinner at her apartment is the accident.

“Your place is beautiful.”

It’s weirdly unsettling to see Irene in the middle of her living room, staring at everything in her place. She picks up pictures of friends and family, leafs through art books on her coffee table, and studies some of her old medical textbooks. They’ve already went through the conversation, the why this, and Wendy can’t remember if they really gave each other a straightforward answer.

“Thanks, I think.” Wendy leans against the doorframe, still dressed in scrubs. Her hair is spilling out of her ponytail and she should really shower. “I need to unpack the groceries,” she says too and she can’t get over how fucking pretty this woman is or the fact she’s _really_ standing in her living room.

Irene looks up at her. “I can do it.”

“I’m the one that said I was cooking though.”

“You worked all day though,” Irene protests and she tries to move towards the kitchen. Wendy catches up with longer strides though, squeezing by a corner. “Yah, Son Seungwan – _please_ let me help.”

Wendy pokes her in the hip and the other woman squeals, jumping as she laughs. Her eyes are wide and she’s breathless and Wendy can’t help but stare because she’s flushed and here, right in front of her. _I can’t stop thinking about you_ , she wants to say. Or accuse. Because she’s not like this. She’s a little more practical, in fact, and it hits her in a way that just makes her head spin.

“You changed your hair back,” she murmurs, suddenly, reaching out to twirl a strand of hair between her fingers. Irene stops laughing and Wendy can’t help but hold her gaze. “It was purple or dark blue before, I think.”

“Blue.” Irene’s voice drops too. “I didn’t like the purple.”

“I think you’d be beautiful in any color, honestly.”

Wendy hates that something is stirred when Irene’s mouth parts, that she’s more than just acutely aware of how Irene’s breathing changes, how the long slope of her neck seems like the perfect place to kiss, maybe bite, and wow, she thinks, wow she’s losing her mind.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Irene murmurs, and that’s when Wendy loses any semblance of control. It’s not that Irene calls her beautiful, it’s that Irene is earnest when she says it and it feels like something she means. Her honesty is almost hypnotic and there, then, Wendy reaches for her and slides her mouth over hers in a kiss.

For a brief second, she realizes that they’re still in the hallway and that the kitchen is the other way. Everything goes out the door because Irene slides her tongue into her mouth, grabbing a fistful of her hair to deepen their kiss. There’s no particular way to call it anything but a kiss; it’s heavy and her head is spinning and she can’t help but kiss Irene as deeply as possible, almost as if to bury herself in her.

Somehow, in this, she loses her t-shirt and Irene’s blouse is on the floor. She’s cupping her breasts as she pinning her into the wall, biting lightly at the slope of her neck because that’s all she’s wanted to do. There’s no reason for this to move as quickly as it’s moving, but nothing inside of Wendy cares. She just wants Irene. Right here, right now.

This is trouble, you know.

“So there _is_ someone.”

Wendy scowls. “The nurses talk too much.”

Joy laughs.

They’ve been friends for years. Joy is also a singer; the irony isn’t lost on Wendy, given that all these musicians come in and out of her life. Joy isn’t just some sort of indie darling, she’s a prolific songwriter – she wonders if she knows Irene. She almost shakes her head. That’s a stupid question, she thinks.

“Is she cute?”

Wendy rolls her eyes. “We’ve just gone out a couple of times.”

Joy sits on the couch, in her office, staring at her curiously. Her head tilts to the side and she picks up the coffee she’s nursing. 

“You like her,” she says.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Joy leans forward on her knees. Wendy tries to ignore her, flipping through some paperwork. “It’s written all over your face, you know. Was the sex great then?”

Wendy groans. “It’s not exactly consistent.” She narrows her eyes too, blushing. “And I’m _not_ answering that question either,” she says to Joy’s laugh.

Her head falls into her arms and she sighs, squeezing her eyes shut. It’s weird: they meet for the occasional coffee and dinner. Sometimes, in her head, she calls them dates because they feel like dates. They feel like she’s known Irene for years, like she’s been in her life always, and it’s weird and startling and she finds that she’s trying too hard to hate that part.

“She’s busy, given that she sings and is apparently really successful? I don’t know. I work a lot too, so it’s… weird.”

“She sings?”

Wendy nods. Joy blinks.

“Her name is Irene,” she offers. “You know… they just came out with a mini album thing.”

The thing is Wendy forgets that she known Joy for years sometimes. It hits her though when the sudden range of emotions cross her features, when they go from something lighthearted and warm to something dark and distant. The frown on her face is deep and she becomes all too serious, so much so that Wendy is taken aback, starting at her too.

“I know Irene-ssi,” Joy says slowly. Her mouth purses and she looks down, wringing her hands in her lap. “Very well, in fact,” she says.

Another thing about Joy is that she doesn’t know how to lie, nor is she the type too. Wendy has always said it’s something she admires about her, except now her stomach is in knots and something is coming.

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Wendy murmurs too, and Joy scoffs into an empty laugh, standing to move to her desk. She finds herself searching Joy’s gaze, watching as she struggles to say what she’s holding onto.

“Look.” Joy is careful. Wendy feels her heart begin to race. “Irene and how you met her, what you did with her – that’s yours, that’s _personal_. You’re an adult and you make your own choices and as your friend, I’m here to support you. But –”

“But.”

“There’s no Irene without Seulgi,” Joy finishes. Something crosses her expression and she says it so sharply that Wendy is almost taken aback. “And I,” Joy says firmly, “don’t want you to learn the hard way.”

Wendy doesn’t say anything.

Apparently, there’s that too.

It happens Friday night.

There’s a huge explosion in the middle of the city and Wendy can’t remember the last time she’s seen the emergency room so packed. There’s no time to think about anything and her ears are ringing with sobs and violence and staff barking orders to make sure things keep _moving_.

It’s been days since she’s gotten one missed call, then two missed calls, and a voicemail she hasn’t listen too. She doesn’t know why she feels petty but she does and it seems like the easiest thing to do when it’s only been a few, sporadic dates and they’ve only slept together once.

But when she loses a patient and she has to go and take a moment alone, she scrolls into her voicemail and scans some of the transcript of the voicemail that very clearly says _Joohyun_ and something like: _did I do something, I’m sorry, I miss you_ and it feels all too much.

Wendy is halfway into hitting the call back button when the news drops, a bright notification across her screen.

_Pop-duo sensation Seulgi and Irene confirms dating, two years into relationship!_

This is how she learns to hate herself.


	2. 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There are five voicemails._
> 
> Wendy decides she has no concept of time.

-

A brief interlude:

There is a piano in the living room.

It’s not the most sensible thing. It’s inherited, her grandmother’s parting gift before she passed away. Her mother told her she should have sold it. “Be practical,” she had admonished, true to form. “What do you need that for?”

But then something, almost right out of a movie happens, and she is sitting next to Irene on the piano bench playing for the first time in what feels like years. Just because the other woman asked her, mind you.

“You’re really good,” Irene says too, half-riddled in some kind of misplaced awe – misplaced to Wendy, if anything. Irene looks up at her. “How long have you played?”

Wendy shrugs. “It’s been awhile. I used to play a lot when I was younger.” She grins. “I wish I could say something cool like when I’m really, really stressed from a long day, I come home and just _play_.” She misses a key and sighs. “But it’s really been awhile, unfortunately.”

“That’s too bad,” Irene murmurs.

They sit in silence, Irene watching Wendy as her fingers move across the keys. She’s ginger, almost reverent. There are some memories that start to rise up. She really can’t explain it; it really has been a long time and she can’t remember the last time she’s played for someone else.

“I wanted to sing,” she tells Irene. She laughs a little too. “I actually had an audition for a company— a friend of mine dared me to go and then I got the flu. Universal signs, you know.”

Irene snorts. “That’s bullshit.”

“Well.” Wendy’s fingers pause over the keys and she looks up. “Not necessarily,” she says. “Did I want it? Sure, but the drive never _really_ hits you until you’re in the thick of it. Medicine made sense for me. It was a practical choice for my family too. I was always thinking about that too. Not everybody has those ah-ha moments, you know?”

It’s weird because she feels like she’s just blurted out her entire life story. It’s not that dramatic, but this is the most honest she’s been with someone in a long time. She doesn’t look at Irene either, still playing lazily as she tries to process all of this.

“I didn’t have an ah-ha moment either,” Irene murmurs. She sighs a little too. “I mean, dancing has always been easy for me and fun.” She grins, looking up at Wendy. “I really love it. I just never saw myself doing any of this, I guess.”

There’s an understanding that settles between them. It’s a strange feeling, intense even - Wendy has always been a romantic at heart, but she also has no expectations. That’s the challenge, she thinks. Or is she already past that? 

Her head is spinning a little and she hates that she’s a little ahead of herself. She studies Irene a little. Her fingers move from the side of her face to her mouth, dragging lightly over her lips.

“So what now?”

“What do you mean?”

Irene shrugs. “Do we—” She waves her hand between the two of them. “You know, well —”

She laughs, turning towards Irene. She doesn’t know what to say. _I don’t know you_ seems like the appropriate response, but even that seems to not make any sense to say. She reaches forward instead, brushing Irene’s hair back and tucking some strands of hair behind her ear.

“I really don’t know,” she says. Her face feels a little warm. “I’m not really sure.” She grows a little shy, rubbing her neck. “I’ve always been a relationship person. I’m not interested in… not-relationships, you know what I mean?”

“Ah.”

She can’t read Irene’s expression and that might bother her. She can’t tell, but a frown is biting at her mouth.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” she says. Honestly too. She tries to force herself to look away, but can’t. Instead, her hands drop to the keys. “But the truth is the truth, I guess.”

Irene looks away.

“That’s where we’re different,” she says.

There are five voicemails. They hit at different periods of the day. Wendy hates that she knows that they’re there, right on her phone, and that every time she opens her phone she can see the number attached to her call icon and almost _hates_ it with a severity that she didn’t know she had.

The first three are the same, Irene with the _same_ voice, all leading Wendy down the path to the same kind of guilt.

“ _I’m sorry. I wish I had a really good explanation for all of this… but all I can come to is I’m sorry. Because you didn’t deserve any of this and if there was – ah._ ”

Usually, between the three – mind you, Wendy listens to them again and again, not because she’s obsessed, but because she just wants to understand and not having the answer is something that really, really bothers her.

She also hates being lied to.

“ _I owe you a lot of explanations. But I said that already – I mean – oh god, this is just a goddamn mess. I just want to keep going, you know? Or give you some sort of line where this is just the business and no one has to know about us. Because really, say the word and I’ll make it happen. No one needs to know about us._ ”

But it’s the last one that’s the worst, the one that Wendy listens to in the middle of the parking garage, by her car because it’s basically empty at four am. She listens to all the pitches and changes in Irene’s voice because she remembers, because she _has_ to pay attention to details still. 

“ _I don’t know how to fix this._ ”

There, that last part, haunts Wendy into her car and all the way back to her apartment, home to the bed that still smells like Irene. She hates that she’s become this person, completely codependent on interaction that should have been nowhere near complicated because complicated was too close for the two of them and had they said that, together, they might have been somewhere different. Except they’re not, they’re here.

It’s not a lie: it takes her a week more to change her sheets.

She’s missed too many things.

A patient dies.

It happens. More, Wendy thinks, than she’d like to admit. She sees things in the emergency room that are sometimes bizarre and seamless, like a tired parent trying to get their child to sit still so that an intern can pull a toy out of his nose. But she also sees the very worst in people, things that take her out of sleeping for weeks on end, not because she was directly involved, but because there’s something to a person’s eyes sitting, staring back at you lifelessly or someone’s partner covered in blood or regret or both – she thinks, there, is where she has the most issues and then coming home to an empty place and that’s a lot too.

“Are you okay?”

Her car lights flash with a beep. Joy’s sigh on the other line is heavy. She means well, but she’s terrible at hiding how she feels.

“About which part?” Wendy asks. “The fact that I couldn’t save someone’s life or the fact that a girl I just meant… well, you did say that it was messy.”

“I did.” There’s no sharpness behind Joy’s voice. “Doesn’t mean I’m happy about. But seriously, are you going to be okay? I saw the news.”

The fire that broke out mid-city was devastating. She’s going to be forever haunted by the people that came into the emergency room tonight, from the welts on their skin to their cries. It’s not new; that might be the worst part.

Wendy pinches the bridge of her nose. But it’s not, she thinks. “I don’t know,” she says quietly. She nears the glass doors to her building entrance. “I think that I probably won’t sleep tonight. Which sucks. Because I had a double today and I agreed to that.”

“You work way too much,” Joy says dryly. “You need a vacation.”

“Maybe I’ll just dye my hair,” she says. “I could stop and get something.”

“That’s what you do when you breakup with someone.”

Joy means to keep it light, but Wendy feels that one – not the breakup part, but the whole underlining _I told you so_ that Joy does but doesn’t really mean to do. She hasn’t thought about Irene in days; hasn’t had the time to, but it still feels a little like a lie.

“Well,” she says finally. “Maybe I’ll just cut my hair and dye it and be done with it.”

“That seems drastic.”

“Cheaper than a vacation though.”

Joy laughs and Wendy feels a smile, the first, if anything, of the night. She rubs her eyes and steps onto her elevator, making a brief excuse about calling her back because of the service. It’s all true; they just know that Wendy won’t call Joy back tonight. It’ll just be too much.

She does take the silence of the elevator as moment to herself, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes briefly. Get it out of your system, she tells herself. Instead, her memories are more fragmented. It’s the night, it’s the smell of fire, and mixed, in between, her mind floats back to Irene and her damn voicemails with all the magazine covers in the hospital gift shops.

Maybe she will let Joy set her up. Or not. She almost remembers the last time that happened; it wasn’t good and that’s all that matters.

The elevator doors do open and she steps out onto her floor, fumbling for her keys. She drops them and they hit the floor loudly, muffling the curses under her breath. It shouldn’t matter, but her body is starting to shut down. She needs a shower and her bed, regardless of what she thinks about her apartment, the damn piano, and everything in between.

“Hi.”

Wendy freezes.

These are the scenes in the movies where you watch and wonder why, why did it get to this point and was the hero going to do. If it’s a love story, they’re going to run to their partner. Kiss them, hit them, _whatever_. If it’s a horror story, well, Wendy hates horror films even though Joy makes her watch them every time they’re together and they drink too much.

But it’s Irene, the very same Irene that graces all those damn magazine covers that seem to follow her around. She looks like the stage Irene too, the one that she saw at glance at the convenience store, dancing at the register television. Her eyes are dark and rimmed with makeup. Her mouth is full and Wendy’s gaze lifts and follows every inch of skin she sees. That’s mine, she wants to say. _Mine_. But her hands are shaking and she can’t tell if she’s just tired or angry or both.

“I figured I should come and talk to you in person.” Irene’s voice is uneven. “And now, here you are and I just can’t think.”

There are a million and one ways she could approach this. She stands there and stares, just stares at her, trying to tell herself that she’s blocking the door, _her_ door, and fuck it, they might as well talk. But Wendy is exhausted and frayed at the edges and the night is suddenly creeping up over her, reminding her that she’s close to burst and it’s not going to be pretty.

This isn’t her proudest moment.

Wendy drops her bag. It takes four, large strides to reach Irene at her door.

At the end of it, she kisses her.

There is an unopened bottle of wine on the coffee table.

Next to it, Irene’s head is between Wendy’s legs on the floor. They’ve missed the couch and it should be funny, but neither of them is to that point. Wendy is way too distracted: Irene’s tongue does this thing where it darts out, pushing itself over her clit, and then slides back and forth, only to try and get a rise out of her. She’s found the spot too, _the_ spot, and it pushes right at Wendy, pressing heat into her belly and her breasts, causing her to pant heavily because the build up feels way too slow and she just wants to explode already.

“ _Please_ ,” she breathes, and Irene looks up, her fingers inside of her too, almost suddenly, moving in and out. “ _Please_ ,” Wendy gasps again, her hips arching. “I need –”

Irene shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs. “I want to see you like this.”

She doesn’t remember much after that. Her mind sort of goes blank and she cries out, arching back as rolls of heat and dizziness hit her again and again. It feels like an orgasm but her legs are shaking and her breasts ache and she really, really just wants to give everything back Irene, again and again. Instead, she takes the moment and Irene pulls her fingers out from between her legs and slides up, along her body, to press into Wendy and kiss her lightly.

It’s odd feeling, kissing Irene and knowing that she’s tasting herself, or that she’s kissing Irene and maybe Irene is trying to assert something in whatever it is that’s happening between them.

“I’m not a home-wrecker,” Wendy breathes and slides a leg between Irene’s. She pushes on her own strength, turning them so that she’s covering Irene on the floor. “And I know I kissed you first –”

“We’re not together,” Irene breathes.

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Wendy hisses and kisses Irene anyway. Her tongue pushes back into her mouth, sliding over Irene’s tongue, practically lapping away at her. She drags out the kiss as much as she can, determined to almost punish her; her head is spinning though, trying to fight through the desire as to why Irene is here and kissing her back. Or why her hips are pressing right back into hers.

This is a mess.

“We’re _not_.”

It sounds like a promise as Wendy slides between Irene’s legs and her ears are ringing. This is so messy, she tells herself again. And again. But the desire to push Irene to the exact same limits as she has her is way too much and too strong. She came to you, she tells herself. And then again. _She came to you_.

She also doesn’t want to look at Irene’s expression, knowing that whatever’s there, whatever’s waiting for her, it’s something close to the truth. She buries herself in between her legs then, her mouth sliding against her thigh, then her tongue inside her, driving this husky, short gasps of air to come out of Irene’s mouth. Some of them sound like her name. Some of them are pleas for more. There’s a heavy sense of satisfaction that hits her this way. She is making Irene just as crazy as she made her. That’s the hard part.

Irene comes just as hard as she did.

She’s panting and Wendy is staring at her, her fingers spreading over her belly. They’re both sweaty and tired. Suddenly, Wendy even hates that Irene is still wearing whatever stage makeup is left.

“I’m not here to be a secret,” she says.

This part she means.

The first time, the _piano_ time, the one that Wendy tries to forget; or simply put, a missing moment:

Breakfast is awkward, maybe too awkward, and Wendy makes Irene waffles even though she protests and says something stupid like “I’m on a diet.”

“You don’t need to be on a diet,” she says. “You just need to be healthy.”

It’s a hard pill to swallow, but the intensity that Irene looks at Wendy is almost overwhelming. Their conversation from the previous night still lingers and Wendy fights through it, mostly because she doesn’t want to make it awkward.

“It’s for promotions,” Irene says quietly.

Wendy shrugs. “I don’t care if it was for you walking down the street.” She grabs Irene’s hand, waffles forgotten, and drags her into her bathroom. There’s a gigantic mirror in front of them and she pushes Irene before, grabbing her by the hips. “Look,” she orders gently. “Look at yourself.”

Irene is quiet and stares at her in the mirror, but not at herself. Wendy says, almost frustrated, but keeps pressing on.

“You’re beautiful.” The words dry against Wendy’s tongue, but she’s pushing to make her point. “I mean that. You are. In fact, I’m pretty sure you know you’re beautiful too – that’s not the point though.”

Irene’s voice is soft. “Then what is?”

“The point is that you starving yourself is only going to pull you apart. It might not be obvious in the beginning – you’re doing this for promotions or a commercial or to fit in that dress, etc, etc. But someone needs to tell you that the person you are, the one that I’m looking at it, doesn’t need to eat just _broccoli smoothies_ for the month.” She points to herself. “I’m the mess. I’m a doctor and most of the week, I survive on coffee and water and really terrible meal habits – including skipping them all together.”

Irene shakes her head. She drops her hand over Wendy’s. Her fingers begin to rub a circle over her skin.

“I’m learning a lot about you,” she says. 

Then there’s the smile, a real smile – it’s nothing too large, too bright. It feels heavy but it’s also that moment, you know, _the_ moment where Wendy knew she was in trouble and in real trouble.

“Is that a bad thing?”

Irene shakes her head. She doesn’t move from her spot. Her fingers are still tracing circles over the back of Wendy’s hand. Maybe it means something. Maybe it doesn’t.

But Irene is honest. “No,” she says. “It isn’t.”

It’s called an ah-ha moment for a reason.

The truth now?

Present day Wendy is thinking about Present day Irene, potentially back at her apartment and asleep in her bed. She didn’t exactly say goodbye but didn’t exactly say _don’t stay_ either. Left her a text as she exited the elevator and talked herself into hoping the best – whether that was seeing her again or not, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know if hoping is a good idea.

“It’s a lot,” Wendy admits, calling Joy back at the hospital. She’s on call and there are patients to see. One of her residents had a family emergency on top of that. “I mean,” she continues on the phone, “I don’t know… that was probably a terrible idea.”

“You _think_?”

“Shut up.”

Joy sighs. “Seungwan-ah.” There’s a pause and Wendy steels herself. It’s always the knee-jerk reaction. “You can say that you like her… all I said that it wasn’t a good idea.”

“And you were right,” she points out.

“Sure. But you still –”

“Slept with her. Yeah, so I did.” Wendy stops just outside, right by the emergency room doors. There’s a cluster of doctors and nurses taking a break. She moves away from them. “Twice,” she says, ignoring Joy’s sigh. “There’s nothing I can say to that, other than… it doesn’t matter.”

Rubbing her eyes, she finds a bench. It’s cold out. She’s surprised that she’s made that long. She can’t remember if she slept at home, even after her and Irene and whatever it is that they did. She feels it in her shoulders. Her fingers trace along her throat and she’s well aware of a bite mark that rides that collar of her shirt. One of her nurses offered her concealer, which was _wild_ and she’s sure by the end of the week there are going to be rumors.

“I forgot to eat,” she mutters.

“Idiot.”

Wendy snorts. “Not like I did it on purpose.”

“Do you want me to bring you something? I should be on my way home in a little bit.”

Her mouth opens to reply. She really doesn’t want to make a decision and her mind wanders back to her apartment, to Irene instead and she starts to kick herself about how she left. Maybe that wasn’t the way to do it.

“I don’t know,” she mutters. “I’m tired of thinking.”

“You must want something.”

Wendy rolls her eyes. “I don’t –” She’s startled, a yelp cracking on her mouth as Joy yells something like _yah, Son Seungwan!_ on the phone, sending her hearing into rings and overdrive. It takes her a minute to realize there’s a hand on her shoulder and as quickly as it came, it goes. Joy’s voice then dies in her ear, the phone almost slipping from her hand.

In front of her, right in front of her, is Kang Seulgi, or just, Seulgi, every bit as glossy as the Irene that haunts her when she’s not around. She stands tall, her smile is warm, and her hands are shoved deeply into a leather jacket.

Wendy’s mouth opens and closes.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm sorry this part was late!
> 
> The not-so funny part - we had a tornado yesterday which, well, was insane and scary and all sorts of crazy that ended up with us losing power. I'm really grateful that my family is okay and our home only retained some damaged. The actual funny part? I remapped this out and it's going to be four parts, lol. While I should have been saving my phone battery for work the next day (which I couldn't go to because work also had no power), I planned the rest of it out. 
> 
> Anyhow, I'm grateful for all of you and your response to this! And hopefully, you're just as excited as I am to see where this goes.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. 3.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Why is this so awkward?”_
> 
> Sometimes, life is just one giant baseball metaphor. And Wendy hates baseball.

-

“Why is this so _awkward_?”

They make it to a Subway by the hospital. It’s the only place open this late; Wendy starts to think things like _maybe in another life we would’ve been good friends_ and really tries hard to hate Seulgi – because, if anything, isn’t this what she’s supposed to do? But she can’t and she won’t and, really, it takes a lot of effort and energy that she doesn’t have to hate her or even dislike her. So she moves on.

It doesn’t mean that she’s not confused though.

“No clue,” she answers. She pushes the lettuce around on her plate. Her sandwich is in tatters. “You came to see me, remember?”

“Right.” Seulgi sighs. She rubs her face. “I did,” she says. “See, I had the whole thing planned out. You know, one of those – hey, remember me, can’t I take credit for introducing you to your girlfriend –”

“Isn’t she yours?”

Wendy hates how the words come out of her mouth. She feels like an idiot, slack-jawed too. Seulgi stares at her wide-eyed.

“I mean,” Wendy continues. “There was an announcement.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yeah. _That_.”

Seulgi sighs. “It’s not true,” she says.

The words don’t hit her quite yet. Wendy goes through a mental play-by-play; they’ve slept together twice and she’s not a cheater, in fact, there’s this weird sense of devastation and relief that hits her. _I didn’t go there_ , she thinks. Her eyes close. She sighs too, heavily even.

“I mean,” Seulgi continues. She’s almost careful. “The announcement wasn’t our idea either,” she mutters. “The company decided to capitalize on album sales and it was stupid and they told us afterwards to play a part.”

There are knots in Wendy’s stomach. “Are you?”

“I – I won’t lie and say I didn’t think about it.” Seulgi hasn’t really touched her sandwich either. She fidgets. “I’ve been doing this with Joohyun-unnie a really long time and we talked about it… a really long time ago.”

“That’s –” Wendy frowns. “Messed up,” she finishes.

“It’s survival.” Seulgi’s expression changes into something serious. “It also, in a really roundabout way, protects the people that we do care about. And yeah, I know that’s really messed up too.”

In her head, she plays back Irene’s voicemails. She hasn’t deleted them. Maybe to remind herself that whatever this is, this thing between her and Irene; it’s not something that can remain on something even remotely normal. She thinks that makes her sad or even a little bit angry. 

But Seulgi leans across the table, pushing their faux dinners to the side. She doesn’t reach for Wendy, but she does startle her. Her expression remains serious and open, her mouth set into a firm line.

“I don’t really know what to say to make this better,” Seulgi murmurs. “In fact, I might even make this worse. But if I don’t say these things to you, I might regret everything and I don’t want to do it.”

Wendy tilts her head to the side. “That’s a little dramatic,” she says dryly.

“She likes you,” Seulgi tells her, ignoring her comment. Her words hit hard all the same. “Like really likes you. In fact, it’s probably really hard for her to say anything to you because she likes you. You see, in all the years I’ve known her, really known her, she’s always been clear-cut and likes things to be simple, black and white – whatever you want to call it. But you, you’re different.”

There are a thousand different ways that she could respond to Seulgi. It’s just that suddenly, she’s more than aware that she’s sitting in a near empty Subway with a huge music star and no one but the nineteen year old kid behind the register. She’s aware that she’s just a doctor and that she should go back because there are things that she needs to get done before she goes home to crawl into bed. She’s also aware that she, too, may really like Irene more than she’s willing to admit, or ready to admit, which is also something completely different.

But what she does know, here and now, is that she doesn’t like the other woman telling her these things. When she has no business telling her these things, whether she means well or not.

“I think—” Wendy stops herself and straightens in her seat. She neatly folds her napkin back together, getting ready to stand. Her expression also mirrors something serious and guarded. “I think I’d rather just hear this from her,” she says.

This is the truth.

The sun rises on her way home.

Wendy shoves her phone into her jacket and takes a cab, mostly because she knows she shouldn’t be driving or on any pubic transit when she can barely keep her eyes open after work. It’s been days since her conversation with Seulgi; Irene’s voicemails still sit on her phone, now accompanying texts that she hasn’t read and missed calls from Joy, but that’s nothing new – they’ve been playing an honest game of phone tag.

In the cab, she’s blearily aware of the radio on and the driver humming along to the song. He’s already asked her what kind of doctor she is and her short, curt answers have caused him to stop, only occasionally glancing in his mirror to check on her sympathetically. It’s been a blur of a night and it doesn’t matter.

Her eyes turn to the sunrise instead, watching the sky go from gray to a surreal orange, mixed with pinks and reds and gold. She fights through the heaviness, but finds her mind wandering back to Irene. It’s become a kind of routine; try to convince herself to call her, but don’t; listen to bits and piece of all the voicemails past, then stop; hate herself over and over again for getting involved in something that she feels like she has very little control over. Still though, true to form, she digs out her phone and listens to the last voicemail again:

“ _I don’t know how to fix this… I wish I could say the right words, you know. I’m not even that great with that. I know how to give all the big speeches. Thank you for loving us as fans. We’ll work harder, great you stronger – you don’t have to love us. Instead, love us or like us or leave us for a little while, but comeback. Everyone loves when I say things like that and all I’m left feeling is… like I’m rambling. Like right now. Because I don’t know what the right thing is to say either._ ”

There’s a little laugh on the phone. Wendy keeps her eyes glued to the sky, swallowing a little. She hung up at this part, she thinks.

“ _But it is easier to talk when there’s no one listening and if you can’t listen, that’s okay too. We moved really fast, you know. I guess that part, well, it makes me feel really selfish. Because as soon as I met you, I felt like I knew you for forever and that everything fell into place so easily that all the important conversations that I promised myself I would have when someone, no –_ ”

Wendy’s eyes close. 

“ _When you_ ,” Voicemail Irene stops for a second, lingers too. Wendy imagines the expression she makes: brow furrowed, mouth tight. “ _When you_ ,” she repeats, “ _Came into my life. It all went out the door because I just wanted to keep you as long as I could._ ”

It’s really hard to handle, she thinks, when Irene says the words.

Wendy can’t pass that.

The next couple of nights that she’s on call are brutal, almost to the point where she heads home and feels incredibly defeated, torn between questioning her decision to be a doctor and hating that she feels a huge loss of control when someone dies and it really isn’t her fault.

Tonight, her night ends almost uneventfully, so much so that she doesn’t trust it, trudging off the elevator to her apartment. She fumbles with her phone more than she’d like to admit, checking the blank screen for missed calls from the hospital answering service.

“You look awful.”

She freezes and at her door, Irene is standing. There are bags of groceries at her feet and her eyes are narrowed. She’s crossed her arms in front of her chest and if Wendy wasn’t so exhausted, she’d think it was cute that she is very clearly trying to stand a little taller and be imposing.

“Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “I’m sure I do.”

Irene’s frown deepens. “You’re not going to fight me?”

“I haven’t slept in what feels like months. I think I used up my fight when your pretend girlfriend slash group mate showed up at the hospital and took me to Subway because nothing else was open.”

Irene’s expression blanches into something apologetic and Wendy feels almost guilty. She sighs and rubs the back of her neck, pulling at her ponytail and letting her down and free.

“Sorry,” she mutters. Her head feels a little heavy. “I might have a headache.”

“I deserved that though.”

Wendy shakes her head. “No,” she says. “You don’t. And it’s not something I want to talk about in the middle of the hallway. I also need a hot shower and carbs. Lots of them, actually – hospital food sucks.”

“The jello’s good,” Irene says. Her mouth quirks. “And the macaroni and cheese?”

“Not ours.” Wendy’s nose wrinkles. “Pretty sure it’s just moldy jello in disguise.”

Irene laughs and the sound is almost too soft, softer than Wendy remembers it being – not that she remembers that last time she’s seen her either. She tries to have a good look at her, is past the point of hiding it too – until she remembers that the last time they just slept together and left each other, mutually. It was something like _I have work_ and _so do you_ and that seemed to be the perfect excuse give to them both.

But her shoulders feel heavy again and she tries not to think about the voicemails on her phone, the ones that she’s been suddenly, obsessively listening to and having a hard time admitting to herself that she doesn’t know what she’s feeling.

“Do you want to come in?” she asks, catches herself, and then straightens, owning the question because that’s how she’s always been. She can’t help but think about how pretty Irene looks, right in front her, no makeup and baseball cap and then the mess of groceries at her feet. 

Irene smiles a little. She leans forward, cupping Wendy by the chin. She doesn’t kiss her and it hits Wendy, pushes a tightness around her heart, even as her fingers slide over Wendy’s lips.

“Sure,” Irene says. “I’d like that.”

This might be the hard part.

Dinner is pasta and wine. Nothing overtly complicated, but Wendy eats it all as if she hasn’t had a meal in days, practically swallowing each bite.

They never made it to the dinner table or even her coffee table for that matter, instead Wendy is showered with wet hair and sitting on the edge of her kitchen counter. Her legs are bare and dangling and Irene stands between them, not touching her food but nursing a glass of wine.

“Slow down,” she chides gently, amused.

Wendy takes another bite. “I’m starving,” she argues.

“There’s more behind me.”

“It might not be enough.” Wendy swallows and groans, putting down her empty bowl. Her stomach feels heavy and she’s a little sleepy. “When did you learn how to cook?”

Irene snorts. “My mom tried to teach me and I stubbornly refused, until all the ramen and terrible food that I used to hide behind got to be too much. So mom intervened and, well, Google.”

“Thank god for Google.”

Irene laughs.

“I –” Wendy feels a smile fit across her mouth. Maybe it’s because she’s tired, she tries to argue with herself, but it feels good. Being here like this. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “For doing this – because I certainly didn’t have anything left in me, despite knowing how to cook.”

“Are you any good?” Irene asks.

Startled, Wendy looks up at her. Irene’s smiling, that same, soft and warm smile, the one that tells her _I know what you’re doing_ without saying the words. It also gives her an out, something she’s selfishly grateful for. She’s no use to this conversation this way and maybe, just maybe, she also wants to feel what it’s like to come home to someone and let it be _her_.

“Maybe you’ll have to find out,” she murmurs back.

It’s terrifying, but it feels like a promise. Irene puts her wine glass down and her expression changes into something shy, thoughtful even. She remains standing between Wendy’s legs and much like earlier, reaches forward to cup her jaw between her two palms.

Wendy forgets how to breathe.

The intensity of her gaze is almost too much and her fingers play over her cheeks, firm and intent on hold her close. Wendy feels her mouth dry and Irene seems to swallow at the same time and something is passing between the two of them, she’s sure of it, but to name it is even more terrifying than before.

“Can I?” Irene asks, and Wendy isn’t sure what she’s asking. The huskiness of her voice is a lot and she strains, wiggles into the counter as Irene drags herself closer to her too. “Can I find out?”

Wendy’s voice is just as low. “If it’s what you want.”

“I do.”

“Are you sure?” There’s an edge of vulnerability in Wendy’s voice, her breath catching as she finds herself leaning closer to Irene. Her mouth grazes over hers too. “Because I need you to be sure,” she says softly. It’s almost a kiss. “I don’t like sharing, Bae Joohyun. In fact, I’m pretty selfish when it comes to things like this.”

“Okay.” Irene makes a soft sound against her mouth. Her hands drop to Wendy’s thighs and her fingers spread her hands into gripping them.

Wendy doesn’t stop though.

“I don’t care if you’re beloved by millions,” she murmurs too. Every time Irene leans forward to kiss her, Wendy leans back and then forward again to kiss her, catching her mouth first. “I certainly don’t care that your chemistry with Kang Seulgi is on fire and out of this world,” she quotes, grinning into Irene’s mouth. “Or that the world thinks you're dating.”

Irene half-moans into the next small kiss, whining a little as Wendy bites at her lip, dragging her thumb across her mouth to follow.

Then she says it, “As long as you know that you’re mine, then you can find out anything you want to know.”

She kisses her too, after that, her mouth heavy over Irene’s, pushing through each moment of frustration and desire that has haunted her since this started. It was never about the sex, she thinks, and even if she tried to make it just about that, she would never be able to deny connecting someone this heavily and this messily without feeling something for her.

Wendy threads her fingers through Irene’s hair, pulling at each strand, even as Irene bites at her mouth, growling slightly. Every part of her aches with desire, with the need to feel and take over every inch of the other woman, maybe to prove a point, but more to stake a claim.

But that’s not the reality tonight.

She’s exhausted and breathless, dropping her forehead to rest against Irene’s. Her eyes are closed and Irene’s hands relax against her thighs, stroking them gently as the kitchen is filled with them both breathing.

“I’m tired,” she murmurs.

Irene nods. “Let me clean up and go then.”

She pulls back, just slightly too, and Wendy is struck by the shy warmth she reads in her expression. Her head tilts and she thumbs Irene’s hair back, behind her ear, leaning in and kissing her forehead.

“No,” she says. “You should stay. It’s late anyhow.”

A sharp sound comes from the back of Irene’s throat. “Are you sure?”

For the first time in weeks, Wendy feels a smile, not a heavy one, but a smile nonetheless. It’s honest and tired, but it’s there, it’s Irene’s, and maybe that’s where it’s most important.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m sure.”

Joy buys her breakfast.

They sit in a small café, between both their apartments. They share a pastry, even though Wendy has never been a fan of frosted donuts.

“I wanted eggs,” she complains too, grinning when Joy flashes her an annoyed expression. She’s been typing furiously for the last five minutes. “And bacon too,” Wendy adds.

“Look,” Joy snaps. “Just because _you’re_ deliriously happy with getting laid on a more consistent schedule doesn’t mean you get to start to being a pain in my ass. I already hate your girlfriend.”

Wendy shrugs, sipping her coffee. “She’s not my girlfriend. Yet.”

“Whatever.”

It’s the truth though, she thinks. Neither of them have outwardly declared what they’ve wanted from each other though; although, Wendy thinks, her little kitchen speech was certainly the most honest she’s been with Irene. They’ve decided to go forward though, together, and somehow that, if anything, is more important to Wendy than overt declarations. 

“You’re in the worst mood though,” she points out. Her best friend narrows her eyes at her. “And you haven’t said why –”

She’s interrupted by her phone chirping, almost manically, with news alerts. It takes her a minute to process that it’s not the hospital texting her, picking up her phone. She’s almost immediately greeted by things that say _dating news!_ and _SM apologizes for false news regarding their artists!_ which is almost bewildering, given that it threw her through a loop.

Across the table, Joy pales and Wendy reads the next alert out loud.

“Kang Seulgi publically declares feelings for Indie darling, singer and songwriter Joy – that’s _you_ — further sending her company into spiraling panic as they try and recover from scandals –”

“I’m going to _kill_ her.”

“Wait.” Wendy blinks. Joy is seething. Her hands hit the table. “Wait,” Wendy says again. “Wait – you –”

“Shut _up_.”

Wendy bursts into laughter, watching Joy sputter into more rage. Her fingers clack against her phone screen as she continues to text, presumably Seulgi, with her face flushed and reddening more as she continues on.

“I can see it,” Wendy says, leaning back into her chair. She tilts her head to the side. “I can _totally_ see it.”

“No one asked _you_ ,” Joy snapped.

“Nope,” Wendy agrees, almost cheerfully. She rests her chin in her palm. “In fact, it kind of makes sense why every time you talked about her and Joohyun, you’d get… weird, I guess.”

Joy points a finger at her. “Don’t finish that,” she warns.

“Can we go on double dates?”

Joy throws a piece of donut at her, intending on hitting her, but Wendy catches it and eats it, even though she hates it. She smirks and them grimaces because the pastry is way too sweet, chugging the rest of her coffee to wash it down as quickly as she can. 

“Seriously though,” she swallows, ignoring Joy as she glares at her again. “What weird and wild world –”

She’s cut off again, though, not by Joy but by her own phone. At first it vibrates, then chirps manically again, then cut off by her work text tones, a blaring trump sounds that causes her to jump and a few people around them to stare.

The first is a news’ alert: _BREAKING_ , it reads. _IDOL DUO SEULGI AND IRENE IN MAJOR CAR ACCIDENT, STORY DEVELOPING._

The next is a barrage of texts from the hospital, some of her residents asking for her with a _sunbae, this is a bad one!_ and pushing heavily into her fear and nerves. Layered in between them though, completely missed and tagged with a timestamp of _two hours ago_ is a text from Irene. If she really read it, it might say something like _See you later tonight!_ or _I’ve missed you!_ but she doesn’t.

Instead, Wendy runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading! I'm really glad that everyone is enjoy this wild ride. 
> 
> Also, thank you again for all the kind comments. These last couple of days have been a lot and exhausting, but I'm taking care of myself and enjoying writing because it's definitely a great distraction.
> 
> See you in the next part!


	4. 4.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The first overnight she had in the emergency room, she managed three consecutive hours before she vomited in the women’s bathroom. It was embarrassing. “It happens to all of us,” her boss had sighed sympathetically._
> 
> Wendy meets life in the middle.

-

The first overnight she had in the emergency room, she managed three consecutive hours before she vomited in the women’s bathroom.

It was embarrassing. “It happens to all of us,” her boss had sighed sympathetically. Her fingers had even held Wendy’s hair back; she barely made it to the sink.

Dr. Jung had been called many things at that point. Ice-cold. _Frigid_ bitch – all though there were never any points for creativity. There were even rumors about a fiancée that left her at the altar, as if a strictly professional woman-in-charge had to be explained away as part villain. Still, Wendy had always liked her. Respected her immensely. This wasn’t about her, but with Dr. Jung’s fingers in her hair, her free hand smoothing circles against her back as she tried to desperately get it together, had written some humanity back into Wendy that night.

“There’s always going to be that moment,” Dr. Jung had told her later, smiling too. “Big or small, you’re never going to forget it either – it’s usually the darkest ones. Maybe it’s with someone you know. God forbid, it’s someone that you love. Those are the times that are going to matter the most, where you’re a person and being _that_ person isn’t something you should forget.”

Wendy never forgets this either.

Photos of the crash hit the Internet by the time she gets to the hospital.

It’s a six-car crash, due heavy rains and a drunk driver. The first couple of cars are completely totaled and as soon as she walks through the emergency doors, she has two of her residents giving her play by plays. She barely hears them. Instead, she thinks about all the possible, terrible situations Irene could be in, grappling with all her own levels of panic and dismay.

“The initial driver died,” a nurse supplies too. “His blood alcohol level was abysmal and the rain obviously didn’t do him any favors. We have a volleyball team split into two rooms, assessing their injuries. There’s a family and two truck drivers –”

Wendy frowns. Her heart is beating out of her chest. “And Joohyun, I mean Irene and – the Idols?”

The nurse’s face falls. Immediately, Wendy’s hand goes to her phone in her pocket. It’s vibrating. It’s probably Joy; it hasn’t stopped since she left breakfast. Neither of them brought umbrellas. At least, she thinks, that was the only joke.

“They’re okay,” the nurse tells her, and Wendy feels like she’s going to drop. “They’re at the end of the hallway – their driver is not so great, but we’ve got someone in there treating their injuries.”

Wendy has no idea how to explain just how heavy her relief is. She goes through several stages; guilt, mostly, is the largest and longest one. She stares down the hallway too, just where the nurse points. There’s small cluster of people and someone, she thinks, who looks like a bodyguard. _She’s okay_ , she lets herself think. _She’s okay_.

“We have another driver in critical condition.”

The nurse touches the inside of Wendy’s wrist. She doesn’t jump. She’s only slightly startled, enough to square her shoulders back. A small part of herself tells her to say things like _I need a minute_ or _are you sure she’s okay?_ because that would be the selfish thing to do. But they don’t tell you how to deal with the human element in medical school, or in life, really, life in general. Wendy still takes the second, banking on her tight shoulders and her hands, as they begin to stop trembling. _She’s okay_ , she thinks again.

She can’t go see her. This is her reality right now.

_She’s okay_.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Let’s get started then.”

It takes hours before she shows up in front of Irene’s hospital room, sans nurse and any entourage that seems to be lingering around.

She actually saw Seulgi first. Passed her a phone and made her call Joy, only because it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. After that, it was Seulgi who returned the favor, talking their bodyguards into putting Wendy on the _list_ , even though it wasn’t really a list but an affirmation that Wendy was more that just a doctor that worked here. It takes a lot more for Wendy though, mostly working up the courage to go and stand at her door. This is really the first time she’s had someone at her hospital, someone she knew and cared for – the unavoidable truth –in such a frank capacity. It’s all equal parts terrifying and overwhelming, just enough to push tears into her throat without her crying.

There are no bodyguards around, at least that she sees, and it’s just enough of a push for her to open the door, her free hand curling into a fist.

Irene is awake.

Truth be told, Wendy is selfishly glad that she didn’t see Irene first, outside of what she was told. Her injuries are certainly minor; there’s a large scratch across her forehead, superficial someone told her, but still a scratch where glass exploded into her face as their manager tried to stop the car. Her actual doctor said something else about minor bruises and a fractured wrist, but Wendy isn’t in the presence of mind to act hyper rational. Irene seems so impossibly small in the bed, her eyes large and wide as she takes in her presence, finally, at the door. Her lips part and then close and Wendy swears they start to tremble, even as she turns her head away to hide her reaction from her.

“Hi.”

Wendy doesn’t recognize the sound of her own voice. It’s too soft, too uncertain. She takes a few steps and then moves to the side of Irene’s bed. She doesn’t wait to be invited and sits, grabbing her hand.

“Hi,” she says again.

Irene lets out a watery laugh. “Hi,” she says too. She isn’t looking at her.

“Sorry it took me so long to get to your room.” Wendy looks down, swallowing. Her fingers lace through Irene’s fingers and she feels her eyes begin to burn just a little. “I had all the excuses in the world, you see. Was trying to wrap up patients. I had to come and help with… the others in the accident.”

“I know. Seulgi told me. She said that at one point, she say you and you were covered in a lot of blood.”

Wendy grimaces. “It’s not an excuse though.” She rubs her face. “I should have seen you earlier than this.”

Irene squeezes her fingers. “I know,” she murmurs. “I know you weren’t ghosting me either. At least, I hope you weren’t.”

“I can’t stand you.” It’s the first time Wendy lets out a laugh and Irene is finally looking at her, her mouth wrinkling into some kind of smile. Wendy can’t help herself but to reach out, gently brushing her fingers against the side of her face. “We have to stop meeting each other here, you know. When the universe decides to give us important moments.”

“Is this one those moments?”

“You know what I mean.” Wendy thinks of the girl that died earlier, whether she was on the team of volleyball players or the family, she can’t remember. What she does remember is the devastating wails of family members and the guilt from her relief that Irene was just down the hall. “I just…” She trails off, feeling a little small. “I didn’t think I would be facing someone important in my life in here yet, I guess. I was so damn terrified, you know? I didn’t stop. I didn’t pay attention to anyone else and here, at the hospital, I’m not allowed to do that. Everyone else comes first and if I had come to see you, I would have probably _lost_ it.”

Irene makes a small sound with her mouth. “I’m important?”

Everything that has come out of her mouth is clumsy and heavy and things that she hates to admit. In every relationship she’s had, for her to get to this point, always feels like she’s giving a piece of herself away, something she’s never going to get back. Ultimately, it’s how she starts to resent the other person. It’s just that here, it doesn’t feel like that and she doesn’t know how to handle it.

Wendy can barely form the words. “Yeah,” she whispers. “You’re important.”

“I’m okay too, you know,” Irene murmurs, and here, Wendy begins to realize that she’s crying, maybe crying all this time, her eyes wet, her breathing uneven, and Irene’s fingers brushing away the tears from her face. “I’m okay,” she says again. “I’m sorry –”

Wendy snorts, pressing her mouth against Irene’s palm. “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” she says.

“There’s a lot.” Irene shakes her head. “For one, I feel obligated to at the very least wine and dine you and throw roses at you.”

“I’m not really a roses kind of girl.” Wendy sniffs and rubs her sleeve across her eyes. “I’d rather just obsessively reassure myself that you’re okay and within reaching distance, you know?”

Irene laughs. “I think I can relate.”

They both stare at each other. There are no answers. People promise all kind of linear romance; this isn’t one of them and it’s blatantly clear that it isn’t. It even hits Wendy that she’s not okay with not seeing Irene, that having her weave in and out of her life, playing a _is she, is she not_ game is something that she’s not even kind of interested in.

Her hands rise then and she cups Irene’s face between them, gently pressing her palms into her cheeks. She leans in and kisses her, forgetting a warning or even a dramatic pause, something that seems rightfully theirs. When she kisses her, really kisses her, her mouth feels like it melts into Irene’s. She feels like she’s remembering how to breathing, stumbling her lips into swallowing Irene’s sigh – it all tastes too much like relief for them both and maybe, then and there, is the real romance, knowing that you are existing on the same exact page as your someone else.

Irene breaks away first, breathless. She isn’t smiling, but her expression is warm and she’s pushing some of Wendy’s hair behind her ear.

“Can you stay?” There’s only a slight sense of uncertainty in her voice. “At least,” Irene says, “until I fall asleep?”

It seems way too dramatic to say something like _I’m not going anywhere, anymore_ so Wendy nods and shifts into the bed, curling over one side of the bed and turning just enough to be able to see here.

She kisses her forehead too. “Sure,” she says.

The apartment is huge.

“You live here, by yourself?” Wendy can’t help but be wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open as she tries and picks _one_ corner of the living room space to look at it.

Irene remains amused, carefully putting some bags on the floor. She winces as she shrugs out of her jacket. Her company had called for months of rest, exclamation points included, as more pictures of Seulgi and Irene were released to the press post-car accident. It was really a grossly fascinating moment of time; Wendy didn’t deal with it outside of indirectly, trying to be there for Irene as best as she could, fumbling for reassurances.

“Seulgi lives two floors up,” Irene finally answers. “Our four year together, the company decided to invest in giving us our own spaces.” She shrugs, dropping her keys. “As much as I love having my own space, it gets to be too quiet sometimes.”

Wendy can only nod.

Instead of gawking, she decides to try and help Irene settle in. She feels clumsy, especially walking around the room with no given label. Am _I_ the girlfriend, she wonders and then nearly kicks herself because that’s a stupid thing to ask. She’s never been partial to labels; it seems like a weird time to start.

It is, however, a fascinating look at Irene. 

It’s every thing Wendy expects: clean, bright walls filled with contemporary art prints and music awards, flowers everywhere and a few photos of her with some of her famous friends. She sees a collection of guitars and cocks her head to the side, thinks she’s more surprised that it’s Irene and not Seulgi but then again, that’s more of assumption on her part. She just finds that she likes Irene’s place, feels a little bit more comfortable than she expected to.

“It’s very you,” she ends up saying and Irene just laughs. “I mean it,” Wendy adds. “For whatever reason, it makes sense to me.”

“I like yours better.”

Wendy blinks. “Why?”

“I –” Irene comes to stand next to her, rubbing her arms. She leans against her shoulder, then dropping her chin to rest on it too. “Sometimes,” she confesses, struggling a little, “I look around and wonder who lives here, you know? But when I go to your place, I feel like I can see myself there.”

Wendy feels her face flush and she turns her head, brushing a kiss against Irene’s head. She inhales slightly. 

“You’re getting cheesy again,” she murmurs and Irene gives her a startled laugh. “Not that it’s a bad thing,” she says too.

“Secret’s out then,” Irene agrees.

Her arms go around Wendy’s waist and they just stand there, for a moment, leaning against each other. Wendy wonders if this is how it’s supposed to go, if there’s any sort of guidebook to follow – she’s never cared, mind you. She just feels a little out of her element. Since they’ve met, Irene’s been different.

“I have a question.”

Wendy groans playfully. Irene hits her too.

“I’m serious,” she insists. Then rubs the back of her neck. She pulls back from her too, moving to stand in front of her. It’s an interesting dichotomy, how quickly she alternates from being some completely untouchable to someone very real.

Wendy keeps teasing her though. “But I just got here.”

“Ugh.” Irene wrinkles her nose. “You’re being an ass.”

“I’m just me though.”

Irene hits her arm and then laughs. “Listen to me for a second,” she says. “I’m not really good at saying things. Not like you.”

“Then you _definitely_ —”

“ _Yah_.” Irene grabs her by the hands, swinging herself in front of her now. Her face is still bandaged and something in Wendy quiets, growing a little serious. She searches Irene’s expression, waiting suddenly. “I –” Irene swallows. “I wanted to ask you this question before the accident. Actually, I had planned this really weirdly romantic dinner where I would go way out of my way to talk about how I feel which I’ve never been really that great at. Until I met you.”

By now, Wendy finds that she would have already interjected. She doesn’t usually give away control of the conversation, but she listens, waiting and watching as Irene seems to be struggling for the first time since they met.

“It’s like –” Irene laughs and it’s a little watery. “It’s like I can do is verbally vomit everything I’m feeling to the point where all it sounds like is a damn mess. I think even before all of this, when the company decided to be stupid, I knew I just had to see more of you, that I needed to be around you because for the first time, someone wanted to treat me like me and wanted to know me as _me_. And I – this is so stupid.” Irene licks her lips and Wendy feels the knots in her stomach start tighten. “I just want you to know that I want this to be serious. I want you to know that I’m really serious about you. So if that means you can’t share me with anyone… _god_ this is so cheesy – I just want you to know that I’m serious about you too.”

It’s funny, given that Wendy flashes back to the conversation that they had in her kitchen, the one where she found herself making a really intense declaration, one that she still stands by – even though, it sometimes feels like this is too much. But then she thinks of the Irene that sat in the hospital bed and the fact that her heart was ready to burst, knowing that Irene was there and her public and personal life merged in a way that scared the hell out of her.

“Okay.”

She reaches forward, threading her fingers through Irene’s hair, drawing her carefully to her. Her mouth grazes over hers.

Wendy means every word of it. “Let’s be serious then,” she says.

The funny part?

It will be weeks before Wendy sees the inside of her own apartment, on the excuse that Irene’s place is closer to the hospital and it really doesn’t make any sense for her to go home super late at night, given that Irene is _there_ and Wendy is all about making her life a little easier. The arrangement seems to work for the both of them, even as they’re called out by friends for basically moving in with each other without having to say the words.

“Our producer told us I was more relaxed,” Irene even says, brushing her mouth over her ear in the middle of the kitchen.

Seulgi is on the phone somewhere in the living room and Joy sits at the kitchen island, staring at them with a mix of amusement and disgust. They’re supposed to try and make dinner together, but like every other night and attempt, it’ll probably end up in some form of take out.

“Can’t imagine why.” Wendy grins wolfishly when Irene smacks her butt, disappearing to go change in the bedroom.

Joy scoffs and points a spoon at her. “The two of you are disgusting.”

“Speak for _yourself_ ,” Wendy sings.

Her best friend glares.

For the first time though, Wendy thinks, she feels a little more than just sensible. There’s no desire to plan or hide behind the hours that work gives us. It’s not even about moving in with each other or forward for that matter. Maybe that’s what it takes, she thinks. Just accepting time and people and everything in between for what it and they are supposed to be.

“You look happy,” Joy remarks quietly, out of ear shot of her own girlfriend and of course, Irene who has disappeared to change her clothes.

Wendy tilts her head, studying Joy. “I think I am,” she says. She reaches for an apple on the counter, taking a small bite. “I also think that I’m letting myself be, you know? She’s been the biggest part of that.”

It’s something _serious_ , they’ve both taken to saying. There are no declarations of love or lust, nor do they need them. But calling it something serious implies something deeper and for the moment, for now, she thinks she’s okay with that. She’s okay with being here.

“I still hate her,” Joy says.

And here, Wendy begins to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you to everyone and their comments!
> 
> This was my first _Red Velvet_ AU so I was definitely a little nervous, given that I prefer to write for more realistic situations. But I had a ton of fun writing this nonetheless - I definitely have a soft spot for Doctor AUs. So hopefully you all enjoyed this part and the story now as a whole.
> 
> See you in the next one!

**Author's Note:**

> ... yeah, I have no idea where this came from. I think I watched the _Naughty_ MV way too much so I figured why not do some sort of Doctor AU? Anyways, the plan is for this to be two, maybe three parts. So let's see where this goes!


End file.
